Black Balloon
by Chibi StarLyte
Summary: Every year on the anniversary of Sherlock's fall, John sends a black balloon into the sky. On the balloons are messages that John thinks Sherlock should hear. Post-Reichenbach, oneshot, fluffy Johnlock. T for slight language.


For some reason, rediscovering old songs on my iPod gives me so many Sherlock feels, I can't handle it.

This fic was born from listening to "Black Balloon" by the Goo Goo Dolls for like, three days straight. I didn't want to do a full-blown songfic, but there are elements of a songfic here, specifically John's use of some lyrics from the song as messages on his balloons. I just thought some lines were too perfect for a Sherlock fic to pass up, really.

With the first couple parts, I also wanted to show John moving through the grieving process, because honestly, I just hate the idea that he completely shuts down after Sherlock's "death." He's a strong mother fucker and can overcome a lot of things. I've had a lot of people in my life pass away, and acceptance is hard, but there is a point that after grieving, acceptance and happiness comes. That's what I was going for, anyway, until all the fluff at the end. XD

So yeah. Listening to "Black Balloon" while reading this might help set the mood. Also, another song that makes me feel lots of Sherlock feels is "Into the Ocean" by Blue October. :D But, I digress.

Anyway, enjoy!

Many thanks to Akiame9 for being my super awesome beta and helping me flesh out the ending!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything. All characters, song lyrics, etc. belong to their respective owners. I'm just borrowing them for my own pleasure.

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_Coming down, the world turned over_

_And angels fall without you there_

John Watson stared up at the silver words that glowed in the rare but dim London sunlight. The textured ribbon was gripped a bit too tightly in the soldier's left hand, even with the slight twitching in his fingers. The metallic ink made such a tragically beautiful contrast to the black rubber of the balloon. Perfect, though, for the occasion—one year ago exactly, Sherlock Holmes had thrown himself from the roof of St. Bart's. It was still the most painful memory John carried with him, but he had managed…just barely, sometimes.

And now, as he stood outside the door at 221b, he was having a hard time letting go of the string. It was almost like letting go of Sherlock completely, which was something the doctor was nowhere near ready to do. Not yet. Over the past months, John had entertained the idea that Sherlock was still alive somehow, the cunning bastard, and that this was all some kind of sick joke. As time wore on, though, John realized more and more how ridiculous the notion was. Sherlock Holmes may have been superhuman, but he wasn't immortal. John steeled himself to the reality that his flat mate, his partner in crime—well, crime solving…_mostly_—his best friend, wasn't coming back.

After everything was said and done, he felt like he still had so much to say to Sherlock—so many things he wished he'd said long ago, and tons of new things he wished the detective were still around to hear now. That was how the idea of the balloon came about; it was John's way of trying to communicate with Sherlock, no matter how childish or futile it seemed.

The good doctor breathed in sharply through his nose, closing his eyes and extending his left arm in front of him. With a slow, steady, practiced exhale through chapped lips, John willed his fist to open, letting go of the balloon at long last. He dared to glance up, hazel eyes fluttering open and watching the balloon float up until it was out of sight in the atmosphere. With a nod that was more a reassuring gesture to himself than anything else, he pivoted and disappeared back into the sad yet familiar comfort of their—_his_—flat.

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The second anniversary of Sherlock's death found John standing outside 221b once again with another black balloon. Despite the obvious tension in every single one of his muscles, he still felt a bit more relaxed this time around. He scanned the silver words on the balloon with a half-hearted smile. John remembered Sherlock once saying something about his poetry being hilariously entertaining. If that were the case, Sherlock must have been finding these silly little lines equally funny.

_I go on as you get colder—_

_Are you someone's prayer?_

It was a continuation of last year's words, and the ex-soldier was rather proud of it. He hoped that, even if Sherlock found it comical, he still enjoyed it from…_up there_. John wasn't sure whether or not heaven even existed, but if it did, then he had no doubt Sherlock would be there. He was a hero and a good man…no matter how hard the consulting detective had tried to convince everyone otherwise, even himself.

John felt himself tearing up, but that tiny smile still tugged at the corners of his lips. It still hurt to think about his best friend, but it had gotten easier recently. He often caught himself grinning or chuckling quietly to himself, looking back fondly on many wonderful memories. The tragedy of Sherlock's death still remained just that—a tragedy—but the sorrow was overshadowed by a strange kind of happiness that the doctor wasn't quite used to feeling.

This time, he didn't have to close his eyes when he let go of the balloon. However, he still watched the helium-filled orb until it vanished behind the city's ever-present cloud coverage. John let out a slightly mournful sigh, hesitating to turn back into the flat. He felt that if he stayed outside for a few moments longer, he would see Sherlock leisurely strolling up the sidewalk, or emerging from a cab having just come from Scotland Yard.

He'd dropped the idea of the man still being alive a long time ago, but he couldn't shake off the occasional invading thought that sparked just the tiniest bit of false hope.

Shaking his head, and giving Baker Street one last look-around, John headed back into the flat. Then, for the first time in two years, he drew back the curtains in the sitting room to let some light in.

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On the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, John held a balloon a bit larger than the previous two had been. He'd written considerably more text this time around—he decided that this would be the last year for his annual balloon ritual.

_Coming down, the years turn over,_

_And Angels fall without you there,_

_And I'll go on and I'll lead you home and_

_All because I'm…_

He couldn't bring himself to finish the line. There was no way he could end it without somehow feeling officially severed from Sherlock. John didn't want that. But his grieving was over, and he was ready to accept that Sherlock wasn't coming back. It was the grim truth, but John felt so much more at peace with it now. He left the line open and unfinished in the off chance that in the future, he'd think of more to say. As things stood now, he had said almost everything he wanted Sherlock to know.

'All because I'm…maybe in love with you, Sherlock Holmes,' he'd considered writing, but it wouldn't make any difference now. No, it was better to leave that unsaid. Otherwise, John wasn't sure he'd ever be able to move on.

A contented smile lit up his face, which had become far too wrinkled from frowning in recent years. This wasn't the final goodbye by any means, but it was the last one for a while. The doctor read the shining silver text one more time before sweeping his arm in an upward motion, tossing the balloon into the air. Like the two years before, he kept his hazel eyes locked on the balloon as it gained altitude. He still stared into the smoggy sky long after he'd lost sight of the black sphere. An overwhelming need to cry crashed over him like a tidal wave, but John kept himself composed—ever the soldier. Instead, he let out a calm sigh through his nostrils and stepped closer to the curb of the sidewalk to hail a taxi.

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It wasn't until late evening that John returned to his home at 221b Baker Street. The sky had long since darkened, the same inky hue as the final balloon he released what seemed like forever ago. In reality, it had only been a few hours; his sense of time had been slightly skewed thanks to the pint or two he'd enjoyed with Lestrade down at the pub. The doctor and the detective inspector had become pretty good mates in the time since Sherlock's death, and John was grateful to have Greg there for him, especially on these particular days. They liked to reminisce about the self-proclaimed sociopath, and enjoy a toast and a drink in his honor. Sherlock at least deserved that much.

John fished out his wallet and paid the cabbie as they pulled up right outside his flat. The cool air outside felt glorious against his slightly flushed cheeks, and he let out a blissful breath as he exited the cab. Yes, this was amazing. He almost didn't want to go inside. Nevertheless, he pulled his key from the same pocket where his wallet resided. He was about to feed the teeth through the keyhole when, in his slight haziness, he noticed something very glaringly out of place.

A ribbon was tied around the doorknob. Following the string skyward, John realized that there was a balloon knotted to the end.

A black balloon.

The doctor shook his head a bit, rubbing at his eyes. He knew for a fact that he hadn't drunk nearly enough beer to even be tipsy, let alone start hallucinating. Maybe he was just going crazy? It was certainly plausible. He did have a therapist, after all.

The balloon spun around as a light breeze blew past, and John noticed silver writing on the black balloon.

Okay, this was getting way too weird.

Still…he was curious to see what it said.

Strong hands pulled the balloon down, bringing it close enough that John's breath left condensation on the rubbery surface. There, words were written in an all-too-familiar style of penmanship.

_I'll become what you became to me._

This time, John Watson couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his rose-tinted cheeks. He wanted to hold the balloon close to him, squeeze it within an inch of its life. That desire was outweighed by the risk of popping the balloon, though. Instead, he just continued to stare at it, tears carving tracks down his face as he grinned, deliriously happy. He almost started laughing.

He squinted his eyes shut, squeezing out more salty liquid from his tear ducts as his body shook with silent giggles. His head tipped back of its own volition to let out a bark of laughter that just couldn't be contained any longer. All of his joyous fits ceased entirely as soon as he opened his glassy eyes.

There, staring right back down at him, was a pair of achingly beautiful steel-coloured irises. The long, pale, angular face was fuzzy and upside down in John's tear-blurred vision.

No…it…

It _couldn't_ be.

Still holding the balloon tightly to his jumper-clad chest, John turned around to face the tall, lanky man standing behind him. Said man just continued to stare at the doctor, expression completely unreadable, but those stormy grey eyes betrayed his look of serious nonchalance. He didn't even flinch when John tentatively reached up, releasing the balloon to bob back against the door. The doctor's rough but gentle fingertips grazed those razor-sharp cheekbones. The shorter man could feel more tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. There was no way that this was a dream, or a delusion. No. Fucking. Way.

"Sherlock…," John said, barely even a whisper.

Sherlock closed what little distance there was between them and scooped John into his long, slender arms. John responded to the hug in kind, wrapping his arms around his best friend and death-gripping the back of the detective's favourite black coat. He buried his face into Sherlock's chest, breathing in his scent. Oh God, did he miss it over the years…

"I'll become what you became to me," Sherlock recited just loudly enough for John to hear him. His voice alone was enough to convince John that, no, this wasn't merely a dream and that, yes, Sherlock was _really_ here, standing in front of 221b, _hugging_ him.

John felt the dark-haired man rest his head atop his own. The tighter John held Sherlock, the more he could feel Sherlock's almost imperceptible trembling. He allowed the last of his tears to soak into that dreadfully gorgeous purple shirt before pulling back just slightly, looking up at Sherlock with fond tenderness. Though neither man seemed to want to move, their feet rooted into the cement of the sidewalk, it was a little chilly and John felt it was best for them to go inside. Wordlessly he took Sherlock's gloved hand into his own and began to lead him into the flat they used to share.

Sherlock complied just as silently and allowed John to guide him over the threshold. Once inside, Sherlock drank in every detail of the hall he used to dash excitedly through while on a case, usually when he had gotten a particularly helpful lead. Nothing had changed in the small area, but at the same time everything had changed. Sherlock noticed that John was being abnormally quiet—the man usually liked to chatter—and the quietude was suffocating. However, John had already said so much to Sherlock in the years that had passed, and now it was Sherlock's turn.

As his emotions started leaking from the damn he had so meticulously built around them, he pulled John aside. He pressed the doctor against the very same wall they had first leaned against on their first case together, after a grueling chase through the streets of London. Before John had a chance to question Sherlock's actions, the taller of the two initiated a preemptive strike and claimed John's mouth with his own. It was the only way he could think of to effectively communicate his feelings. It was a rough, completely raw and hungry kiss that said everything that Sherlock wanted to tell John since his fall. He missed John, he needed John, could barely get by without John. In fact, he was quite sure he could never live without John, and was surprised he had made it three long, agonizing years without being by John's side.

John could feel the unspoken words in Sherlock's rather forward, yet affectionate, assault on his mouth. Not to say that the kiss was unwanted—it was all he could ever want. However John was the first to break contact as a sudden realization hit him square in the face. He pulled back, Sherlock's uneasy and slightly hurt expression tugging at his heartstrings.

Dashing out the door, John left Sherlock standing at the foot of the stairs looking and feeling thoroughly befuddled. Before even Sherlock's speedy, deducing brain could process what had happened, John barreled back through the door, nearly tackling the consulting detective to the floor. Something rubbery squeaked in his grasp as he rose on his toes to once again engage Sherlock in another, this time much softer, kiss. Before Sherlock could deepen the connection, John pulled back, a breath away with lips just scarcely touching, and whispered.

"Definitely in love with you, Sherlock Holmes."

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Well, what did you think? I hope it's not too cliche or anything. XD

Thanks for reading!

Until next time,  
>Chibi<p> 


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